I'm An Angel, Trust Me
by PiccoloFrivolous
Summary: Erik really IS an an Angel, but it seems his student is more interested in directing the school musical than singing in it...
1. Death, Finally

"I'm an Angel, Trust Me"

Summary: Erik really IS an Angel, but what happens when his student is more interested in directing the school musical than singing in it!?

**A/N: Hey everyone! I don't own Dogma, G&D, or Phantom in any way, shape or form. I know this chapter is very short, but I'll post more this weekend. If you have a title email it to me ASAP! Please review, I've recently realized there are a million and one ways I could write this, but I'd like knowing where you all want, or think, it's going. Goce!**

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Erik assumed he was very, very dead.

God, _finally_.

He watched Christine take his body to the spot where he had first held her, place her ring on his finger, and idly wondered what to do next. Would he wander the earth for all eternity as some insubstantial specter, never interacting with people ever again, only watching in agony as his beloved Opera House and humanity in general spiraled toward the inevitable? Watching Christine grow old with that boy would be torment, but it certainly was no hell.

"Oh please Erik, did you really think you were going to Hell?"

The Indian-accented voice belonged to a wry-looking, dark-skinned woman behind him.

_Wait, behind him? Where was he, anyway?_

It seemed that question wouldn't be answered anytime soon, as the place he was no in was devoid of description. Simply swirling silver fog that surrounded him on all sides, a mist so thick he couldn't see through it. Just as suddenly, he was surrounded by people: The woman, a young blonde man that was incessantly clacking chewing gum, and an older, pale, sable-haired man in a trenchcoat who seemed to be very irritated. Maybe he wasn't dead after all, perhaps this was a hallucination produced by opium, if it was, he had to admit that it must—

"Bloody '_ell_, you _are _dead, _deal _with it!"

The older man, who turned out to be Britain if his inflection was anything to go by, turned to the woman, "Can we get on with this? I've got considerable business at the Vatican!" He began to pace, muttering about "damned professors" and "meddling humans". Our former Phantom merely blinked. The woman, her face softening at his confusion, smiled, indicated first to the boy, the man, and then herself,

"Erik, this is Loki, Loki, Erik. The Voice, Erik, Erik, The Voice. You may call me Serendipity, and you," She pointed to the bewildered artist, "Are an Angel."

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**Cupcakes, bunnies, and lasso's to reviewers! Constructive-ness gets a hug from Monsieur L'Fantome!**


	2. Le Presento Krista

**A/N: Hey ya'll! Thanks to Throne-Gal for reviewing. hands lassos, bunnies, etc. I love the humor in this chapter… **

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"No dear, that's the thing, you _are_ drunk."

Under most circumstances, a balding, high-school physics teacher trying to persuade a slightly feeble-witted blonde sophomore that she was under the influence of alcohol would be looked on as scandalous, but Krista Meyers viewed it as pure genius—unlike when he had cast the girl. Then, Mr. Louis had told her that there were two types of casting—The cast of an 'actor' who didn't play the role, they_ were _the role on and off stage; and the casting of a true artisté who felt the depth of a part with their very soul, and could display at any time. The selection of Missy Malone was, obviously, a role casting.

The black-haired, onyx-eyed senior viewed the situation with the intensity of an aspiring ballerina watching a professional onstage, or a heroine addict watching his deal switch hands. She was so wrapped up in her observance that she didn't catch Luther come up behind her.

"Oh my god, the costumes, the _costumes_!"

She whirled around, sun-whipped cheeks flaring pink as she saw the delicately boned understudy leaning against a wall smirking. Her heart, which had already plummeted to her feet at the though of what _else _could have gone with the costumes, rose to it's normal level as she steered him down the hall with a hand like steel.

"What do you think your doing?!" She hissed, "What if Mr. Louis had heard you? How would you explain yourself?" Inwardly, she was grinning as much as he was. "Well," he drawled, "I would have told him that I was attempting to give you a heart attack so that you'd finally get some of the rest you desperately need." She rolled her eyes, "I'm fine, and I don't need half the GSA and Anime Club swarming after my ass when I have a teensy little collapse. And it wasn't even a collapse, I just like…tripped and didn't get up…" She ran out of steam part way through and threw her arms around the boy.

As one would think from her enthusiastic greeting, it had been a while since Krista and Luther had seen each other. They perfectly complemented each other in everything except sexuality, Luther tending a bit more towards the male crowd, sometimes more than Krista (who was quite straight, thank you very much). He was the fashion guru who managed to keep her social life from crashing and burning, and she was the sharp intelligence and practicality that kept his algebra grade afloat. She was the one who steered him directly through most emotional crises, and he advised her on where, when, and how to keep the majority of the school from labeling her a leper.

She led him up the stairs from the seats, backstage, downstairs to the dressing rooms, down the hall up the stairs to the prop room, and made a sharp left past the door that led to the loading dock. They came to a small, drafty room, that barely held a decaying orange loveseat, a scarred left-handed desk, a vanity table, mirror, and a chair that Krista though may have been there since the school's founding. Krista opened her mouth to speak, and a peppy ringtone came out. "Oh crap, that's me." He picked up his cellphone—the latest with camera, Internet, rings, the works. Punching a few select buttons, he smiled. "Gotta run, sweetie," He gave her a tight hug and took off in an elegant lope down the hall. "Duty calls!" She chuckled and shut the door behind him. "Duty being that Brad probably got off work early." Pulling on an old gray running jacket over her black turtleneck, she flopped down on the couch, immediately enveloped by a cloud of dust. She coughed slightly, then closed her eyes to attempt to collect her thoughts. She had only been Assistant Director of South Hawthorne High's musical, Guys & Dolls, for a week, and it seemed like a billion things had happened. The costumes had to be repaired, her parents had separated, the sets weren't right, a stage light had gone out, Luther had officially come out, Missy had a fit over every little thing, they may have gone overbudget, and Krista basically had moved into the old Director's office.

Trying to sort out what she'd have to deal with this afternoon, when she was going to fit in an English paper, and if she'd have time to eat, Krista fell asleep with her head pillowed in her arms, dreaming of dulce de leches doing the can-can…

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**A/N: The last line might make more sense if you've seen G&D. If you keep with the story, you'll understand it later…Review, my minions! Next chapter will be Erik POV 3rd, no worries. -Kess**


	3. Explanations

**A/N: Just so you all know, Matt Damon was Loki, Allan Rickman was The Voice, and Salma Hayek was Serendipity in the Kevin Smith movie Dogma. As it turns out, the movie was entirely incorrect on Loki & the Metatron's part—according to Angels A to Z, and a student religious science major, Loki was a Celtic god, and Metatron was an Angel of Death, though not official (Obviously, since his name doesn't end in –el.) So there's your theology lesson for the day. **

**Thanks to SongWind for reviewing, and throne-gal, hopes this answers your question about timing.**

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"So….I'm an Angel. But I still don't understand who _you _all are."

After finding his well-cultured voice, Erik found that most anything he said would be as coherent as his thoughts—which were as understandable as a drunk Italian soprano. He had so many questions…where were they? Who were they? Why wasn't he in Hell? Was there really a god? Was there a reason the woman dressed in men's clothes?

Once again, the woman, dressed in black jeans and a tight crimson top, spoke. "I am Serendipity," She said, as though Erik should know who she was.

"You know, The Muse?" At his ignorance, she looked incensed. "You know, _Inspiration_? You, of all people, should be familiar with the concept. Dammit, that's the trouble with being intangible, you get credit for jack—"

"Now Muse," The blonde, now obviously identifiable as an American, teased, "We have business to do." He grinned, vexingly reminding Erik of the Vicomte.

"Yes, we do, can we get on with it?!" Now the Brit turned to the ghost-without-an-opera. "In your death, God has decided to officialize this Angel of Music affair. Basically, He's tired of giving you mortals wonderful gifts and 'alf of you never using them." He spoke as though this personally had offended him. "Now, I am here to charge you with a Divine Mandate." He straightened, somehow seeming imposing in the verdant trenchcoat, "Your duty henceforth is to guide adolescents with artistic gifts into a direction which best puts their talent to use. You will be the child's guardian, teacher, and perhaps," He raised a mocking brow, "Friend." With that, he vanished.

"So," Serendipity picked up where the Voice had left off, "One down, two to go." She looked at her wrist, where a watch would be, but there was none. "I am here to basically help you along, but I'm to keep the intrusion to a minimum. If you or the student ever needs a bit of a push along, I'll be there, and the same if you need advice."

Erik managed to blink, taking all the new information—excuse me, Divine Mandate—in. He realized that there was still one piece out of place. He pointed a gloved hand at the boy. "Why is he here?"

"Oh," Serendipity waved her hand dismissively "He won't be following you or anything. He'll only be on call if things get… out of hand." The boy grinned again, bowing, "Vengeance of God, at your service." Like The Voice, he vanished.

Erik tried to process this information. He had just met the Voice of God, the Angel of Death, and Inspiration herself. Actually being inspired, for any artist, was a blessing, but meeting the woman—thing? Creature? Element?—that made it all possible… If he had been alive, he may have dropped to his knees in praise, already convinced that he was going to Hell; sure that a little false worship wouldn't matter. But finding out that she was a slightly bitter, middle-aged (but keeping her face, surely) Indian woman was slightly…traumatizing.

The subject of his thoughts sighed. "You can get over it later, right now, we have a student to meet." Erik's heart didn't leap as he thought it would, because the thought of having Christine as a student was no longer as exciting as it was… He didn't know whether he had accepted that she hadn't chosen him at never would, or maybe it was the fact that he would have no chance with her as the immaterial. Once again, Serendipity checked her nonexistent watch and smiled, tapping her wrist. "There!" She looked up and smiled. "Erik, you may find this odd….but time passes differently _here_ than _there_. Eighty-eight years have passed on earth since your death, and it is the year…" She paused, obviously doing the math in her head. "2005. Yeah, that sounds right. January 2005, and your student is a senior at…" Her mocha eyes seemed distanced, as though she were trying to listen to something. "She is a senior—that's the fourth and final year at High School, which is the last part of thirteen years of schooling for Americans, and—" She was cut off by her audience, who sounded extremely insulted. "I refuse to deal with those, those…Savages."

She chuckled, finding some kind of amusement in his indignation. "Believe me, Erik, Americans have come a long way from the unrefined rebels they were in your time. Now, they are as artistically advanced as the rest of the world." Her grin widened at his unbelieving snort, "Yes, even France. Now, her name is Krista Meyers, and she is…" Her face altered to match his disbelief. "Well, this might be harder than I thought. She is currently directing the school's musical, and will be going into her father's law firm after school as…a secretary." She sounded highly disappointed, and slightly disgusted. Her eyes refocused on Erik. "And that's all we can get on her…It seems she isn't open to God, or his servants right now. Odd" Striding over to him, she took his hand, still gloved. "Close your eyes…."

Suddenly, they were looking down upon a school campus. It reminded him of his lair in the Opera House, cloaked in twilight. It appeared perfectly calm, an oak tree or two swaying in the breeze, a few scattered buildings devoid of light, the clearing in the middle of the enclosure empty of life. But what really caught his eye was a new looking brick building surrounded by poplars, and the gilded words above the oak doors: _South Hawthorne Dramatic Theater_. He was so engrossed that he didn't have time to pull away when Serendipity placed a finger on his forehead and whispered something unintelligible. He flinched, rubbing his hand on his forehead, where it felt as though a hot nail had been driven into his skull. "What was—" She held her finger to her lips. "Shuttup! We may not be able to be seen, but we can still be _heard_. And that was a gift of knowledge, so that you can scrape by in the 21st century. Anything new you encounter—inventions, phrases, places—you'll know what they are." She squeezed his hand, and…

They were directly over the theater, except, for some reason, looking through the roof. Slowly they descended story by story, the attic, the storage, the main floor, where Erik saw that the stage, seating, lobby, and backstage were mediocre, though probably ornate for such a small town. They sunk through the odd placement of the prop room, pit, and cast dressing rooms. Finally they came to a room that Erik would have given to a minor prop hand that had particularly irked him, for it was the most inconvenient chamber in the building—near a drafty door, far from the main halls, and probably the last to receive light and heat. With the absence of light, he could just make out the room.

There was a knapsack hastily shoved against a wall; all of the accounting files, various lists, measurements, and Things To Do on the desk; a copy of Othello on the chair; and a slip of a girl, about 5'4", wearing simple clothes and sporting disordered black hair passed out on the couch. "So…this is her?" The Muse nodded. "Will I look an Angel—wings, halo, etceteras, when she sees me?" She smiled as though thinking of her own little secret, "She won't, we've had too much trouble in the past with Angels being seen. There was even some television show about it…Someone must have sold their soul to Lucifer to get that show on the air, because _I_ certainly had nothing to do with it. Anyway, you will only appear to her as a voice. You will remain insubstantial for the time being, and you don't need food, water, sleep." She grinned, "Not that you ever did, of course. If you should ever need to appear to her—only under the most extreme emergency, in which case it's more likely you'll be removed—call for me, or Loki even, if I don't respond."

A new thought, one he was surprised hadn't occurred to him earlier, entered his mind, as he frantically turned away from the woman. "Muse—My face, what…?" She chuckled again, placing a hand on his shoulder, speaking more gently than he had ever heard her. "You appear to me, and to any other celestial beings as it was meant to be." She met his dubious amber eyes, her own chestnut ones filling with sorrow at the confusion in his. "Erik, I mean…You never knew?" She frowned, "It was all an accident…God didn't do a proper job while your mother was pregnant, he never meant for your…deformity to occur. He said that one that had to live with such a curse should be given atonement in art if nothing else, so He had me bless you with…with everything." She smiled sadly at the memory. "Your mother had put a bag over your head, the witch. I remember leading you to a gypsy caravan, where there was a man playing something, a lute I believe. I gave you inspiration, as I always had to men, but with it I gave you…love. Appreciation. Hope. He said that maybe now people would look past your face, but as you know, that didn't happen."

She looked away, back towards the sleeping form of Krista, and he thought he saw her blink back tears. Her voice resumed it's businesslike tone. "She is one of the most gifted artists since you, Erik. Not because of Divine blessing, but because of chance. Both of her parents have art in their blood, recessively, of course, and she happened to be born on a very influential day, astrology wise." She finally looked him in the eye. "Good luck. And coming from me, that means something."

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**A/N: This chapter was long for the story this far, but I loved writing it—I love setting up the situation. I still have a very vague idea of exactly where it's going, but I do hope it will later involve romance, annoying sopranos, and of course, drunk missionaries. The crack about Touched by an Angel was sort of taken off of the movie Dogma, she makes a joke quite like that… So I really enjoyed writing this chapter. For more, all I _need _is one review, but a few more couldn't hurt. ;D --Kessie**


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